The aftermath
by Kindle-the-Stars
Summary: In the aftermath of the attack on the SSR Peggy realises that she has nowhere to stay since she cannot go back to The Griffith - Jack Thompson offers her his guest bedroom. 3 part story, now with a one-shot sequel since I caved to peer-pressure. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

In the aftermath of the attack Peggy, Sousa and Thompson were all gathered in the dark SSR headquarters. It was late into the night and everyone else had long since gone home – there was nothing more to be done that night, and tomorrow the clean up would begin. And the continued hunt for Leviathan, of course: they may have defeated Dottie and Doctor Ivchenko, but they were just two people in a much bigger organisation.

_Cut off one head, two more shall take it's place_, Peggy thought bleakly, remembering HYDRA's motto during the war.

Thompson was slumped in his chair, holding an icepack to the back of his head: Ivchenko had struck him with a steel pipe in the hanger and, despite being out like a light for several minutes, he was adamant that he didn't need to go to a hospital. He'd said he knew from experience what a concussion felt like and this wasn't it so, in his words, 'stop your damn fussing Sousa, I don't need a nursemaid.'

Sousa and Peggy, meanwhile, were half-heartedly compiling everything they would need for their reports in an effort to make tomorrow slightly easier, but it was plain that all of them simply wanted to head home for the night – it had been a long and difficult day, to say the least.

Sousa roused himself from whatever thought train had descended upon him while he worked to look up at Peggy. "What happened to the blood?" he asked, breaking the silence that had reigned between the three of them for over half an hour.

"Howard has it," she replied, not looking up from her report.

"You trust Stark with this?" Sousa asked, obviously surprised by her answer.

"More than the US government," Peggy said honestly, closing her file. "Howard may be an utter wanker, but he is a genius," she said honestly. "That's the last sample: it could contain the secrets for vaccines, medicines, anything, and the US had already squandered their supply."

"I met him once, you know," Thompson said from across the room, his station being further away from theirs. He was slouching at his desk, one elbow braced on the wood to hold the hand at the back of his head steadily. He was staring moodily down at the file in front of him, not having looked in their direction when he'd spoken.

"Howard?" Peggy questioned, confused since they had all been speaking to him earlier that day.

Thompson shook his head. "Rogers," he clarified, and Peggy tensed slightly. "Before I was assigned to Japan I served in Europe. Our whole battalion was trapped behind the lines during a blizzard."

"I remember that," she said in surprise, remembering Steve fighting his way through a HYDRA blockade that had pinned them down for months: the base had been flooded with over a thousand men and those in command had ran around like headless chickens trying to get people reassigned and away from a base that was filled well over capacity. "I was there."

"I know," he replied grumpily, then he glanced over at her when she made a faintly baffled noise and shrugged. "You kind of stand out in the middle of an Army base full of scruffy, dirty men, Carter," he explained in a dry, yet lifeless tone.

Silence fell over the three of them once more, then Sousa checked his watch and closed his file with a huff. "I think I am going to call it a night," he said, standing and grabbing his crutch.

"Me too," Thompson said, irritably tossing his own file and pen down onto the desk, quickly followed by the ice-pack he had been holding to his head – he winced slightly at the movement, one hand reaching up to lightly touch the back of his head.

"Oh _bollocks_," Peggy said suddenly, remembering something.

Sousa gave her a mild look, as if her swearing was to do with his decision to leave. "Problem?" he asked, his hand frozen half way to picking up his jacket.

"I've just realised that I can't exactly go back to my old hotel," she said resignedly, knowing that she had a snow-balls chance in hell of ever convincing Mrs Fry to take her back. She shrugged and glanced around the bullpen of the SSR. "Dooley had blankets and pillows in his office, I'll just sleep here, I suppose."

"The windows are all blown in," Thompson pointed out the caveat of her plan – and he was right, glass still covered the floor from the explosion earlier in which Dooley had died. He half gestured towards the door with his hand as he picked up his own coat. "Come stay at mine."

Peggy raised her eyebrows and Thompson continued, reading her scepticism in her silence. "Before you look at me like that, I have a guest-room," he added, putting his hat on his head.

"Thanks Thompson," she said, a little surprised at his offer and relieved not to have to sleep in the cold, draughty and glass-filled office.

Sousa was glancing between the two of them, a bemused look on his face. He then shrugged at Peggy. "I'd offer too, but I just have a sofa."

She smiled at him, folding her coat over her arm. "Sofa or a spare bedroom - this one is a no-brainer, Daniel."

He looked mildly offended, the corners of his mouth turned down. "I would take the sofa, Peggy," he chided, seemingly put out that she had doubted his chivalry in such a way.

The three of them headed out of the bullpen and took the lift down to the main lobby, which was utterly deserted this time of night. The only noise was the click of Peggy's heeled shoes on the marble. Outside cars and cabs trundled passed, with pedestrians walking the streets: even after the terror that had threatened the heart of their city that day, life still went on.

Peggy and Jack said goodnight to Daniel and he led the way to the lot where his car was parked. It was a nice car, she noticed, sleek and dark grey with a small back-seat. He unlocked the drivers side, climbed in and then unlocked the passenger door from the inside, pushing it open for her, and she climbed in too. He smoothly pulled out of the lot and they drove in silence. He wound his way through the streets until he parked up in front of a nice looking building on the Upper East side – an address that Mrs Fry would have approved of, she thought with some amusement.

Peggy opened her own car door and climbed out, noticing Thompson lowering his hand as he walked around the front of the car – he had been about to open her door for her, she realised, well used to this habit after having been driven around by Mr Jarvis for so long. He shrugged, locked the car up behind him, and then led the way up the stoop.

They climbed up four flights of stairs, Jack's building apparently not having an elevator and his apartment being on the top floor. He unlocked a door marked 4B, pushed the door open and flicked on a light-switch, then stepped back to allow Peggy to enter first.

The first thing that she noticed was that aside from a few dirty plates in the sink it was surprisingly tidy. It was a fair size for a city apartment with an open plan; there was a four seater table in the kitchen area, with a single chair askew and the others pushed neatly in, and a sofa and coffee table in the living room. She wandered in, noticing that there were very few personal touches other than one or two pictures of an older couple on the mantle. She looked questioningly at Thompson, who was standing with his hands just in front of the closed door with his pockets. "My mother died when I was young, my father just before the war," he said, answering her silent question. "I inherited this place."

He jerked his head, indicating that she should follow him, and walked passed her, leading the way to a small corridor with four doors. "Bathroom is there, towels are in the linen cupboard," he rattled off, nodding towards where the bathroom door stood open and then rapping his fingers on the cupboard door opposite. He then turned to lean against it, folding his arms over his chest. "That's you," he said, nodding at the door beside the bathroom.

Peggy pushed open the door and found a plain but perfectly serviceable room with a single bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers and a night-stand. It was decorated in a neutral cream and the only personal touches she could see was a obviously homemade patchwork quilt folded on the bed and a framed water colour of a house by a lake. She turned and gave him a small, grateful smile. "Do you … need anything?" he asked uncertainly, apparently unused to company.

"No, thank you, I think I will just call it a night," she replied.

Thompson nodded. "Night, Carter," he said, and then pushed open the door to his own room, which was across the corridor from hers.

She closed her own door behind her and examined the room. The bed looked comfortable enough, the bedding reasonably fresh. She noticed that the covers were tucked in tight, the quilt folded immaculately – no doubt a lingering habit from his days in the Army. The wardrobe and chest of drawers were all empty, as was the night-stand. She briefly examined the water colour above the bed, noticing the signature in the corner read _Penelope Thompson_, and wondered if it had been painted by his mother.

Peggy then went to undress, before realising that she had nothing to change into – all of her belongings had been confiscated by the SSR and she had not stopped to pick anything up upon leaving. Not wanting to sleep in the clothes that she had been running (literally) around in all day, or in just her undergarments in Jack Thompson's apartment, she cursed her thoughtlessness and went to knock on Thompson's door instead.

He called for her to come in; she pushed open the door and found him standing to the side of a queen-sized bed, also immaculately made with the covers drawn in tight like hers was. He was in the middle of pulling off his tie, his suspenders hanging down by his waist. His jacket had already been tossed over the back of a chair that stood beside a desk. "Need someone to tuck you in?" he said sardonically.

She pressed her lips together briefly. "Do you have something I can sleep in?" she asked simply, deciding not to rise to the bait in his tone.

Thompson looked sceptical, a small crease between his brows. "I don't exactly keep women's nightwear around the house," he pointed out, his hands still on his tie.

"Anything will be fine, Jack," she said, somewhat exasperatedly.

He seemed to suppress a sigh, then walked around his bed to a chest of drawers and fished out a pair of plain, stripped pyjama bottoms with a matching button up shirt. He handed them to her wordlessly. "Thank you," she said, her voice steady. She turned and left his room, closing the door behind her and making her way over to the surprisingly comfortable bed in his guest-room.

* * *

The clock on the mantle was showing just passed three in the morning when Jack heard Peggy getting up to go to the bathroom. He was slumped on the sofa in the dark in the living room, a bottle of bourbon in his hand that he was drinking straight from the neck, not bothering with a glass. He had tried to sleep but none was forthcoming – the events of the day kept whirling around his aching head.

She only noticed him when she was on her way back to the guest-room. "Jack?" she said questioningly, stepping into the room. He looked up at her – then looked again. She was barefoot, wearing the pyjamas that he had given her earlier and they drowned her womanly frame, with him taller than her even when she wore her heels. He swallowed his mouthful of bourbon, feeling the fierce burn down his throat.

"Trouble sleeping?" she asked quietly, standing just behind him with her hand resting on the back of the sofa.

Jack looked away from her and turned the bottle over in his hands. It was nearly half-empty by now.

"It all just sort of hit me, you know?" he admitted hesitantly, his voice coming out slightly rusty. "Dooley, the people in the movie theatre, Times Square … all of it."

Peggy came around the front of the sofa, standing in front of him. "How much have you had?" she said, her voice soft as she looked down at him.

_Too much_ – he'd had a problem with alcohol since coming back from Japan, it was why he had been able to recognise it in the homeless-bum that Sousa had bought to headquarters regarding the Stark weapons on the boat.

"Quit your nagging, I told you before I already have a mother," he said bitingly, though the effort wasn't in it. He took another swig, drinking straight from the bottle.

"Jack," she said quietly, her voice completely devoid of any accusation and her eyes full of understanding.

He sighed and held up the bottle to the meagre light that was coming in through the window from the street below. "Bottle was full when I opened it," he said bleakly, and then took another gulp, swallowing hard against the burn. He was acutely aware of her gaze on him and it made him feel uncomfortable, ashamed almost. "If you've got anything to say Carter, now is the perfect time _not_ to say it."

She didn't reply, instead she went to the kitchen and he heard her rummaging through his cupboards. She returned with two whiskey glasses and perched primly on his coffee table in front of him. The bottle was plucked from his limp hand and she poured them a single measure each, pointedly placing the bottle just out of his reach beside her when she had done so.

He took the glass as he handed it her, frowning faintly – he had been half expecting a lecture, not for her to pour him another drink.

She tilted her glass towards him. "To Dooley," she said simply.

He lifted his own glass and then hesitated.

_To the traitor, the spy, the woman and the hero Peggy Carter._

"To the SSR," he said instead, his voice rasping, clinking his glass against hers.

There was a few minutes silence as they both sipped their drinks, though now the bourbon was not sitting as well in his stomach and Jack realised anew that he had probably had far too much. He would have one hell of a headache tomorrow, on top of the ache he already felt from having been knocked out not once, but _twice_ that day.

It had been such a trying day, with Peggy's betrayal, Dooley's death and everything that had happened with Ivchenko and Dottie – he felt tired and sad and so damn _confused_. After Russia he had thought that he had known Peggy Carter, but then she had thrown a curve-ball and turned out to be nothing like he had thought her to be.

He had always been attracted to her, ever since the start. He liked her fire and sometimes (stupidly, he'd realised in hindsight) he would provoke her just to see her reaction, to see her eyes flash at him. He hadn't realised until she had been giving her real confession in the briefing room just how much he had made her hate him – and now she was sitting on his coffee table, wearing a pair of his pyjamas, and by god he wanted her.

He drunkenly wondered what she would do if he were to kiss her right there, if he were to put his glass down on the table, take her face in his hands and just kiss her for all he was worth.

Instead of acting on this impulse he pressed the cool, empty glass to his aching forehead and suppressed a grim chuckle – he would be on the receiving end of her right hook once again, probably out like a light for the _third_ time in less than twenty four hours.

Peggy gently plucked the empty glass from his unresisting hand. Rising to her feet, she took the two glasses and the bottle through to the kitchen.

He didn't _want_ her to hate him, he thought glumly, looking down at his suddenly empty hands as she rinsed the glasses and left them to drain.

He felt the light touch of her fingers on his shoulder. "Try and get some sleep, Jack," she said quietly.

Jack sighed and rose to his feet, his legs slightly unsteady from the alcohol. He braced one hand on the wall as he followed her down the corridor. Peggy lingered in her doorway, watching him carefully as he pushed open his bedroom door. Their eyes met and she gave him a small, sad, encouraging smile as she closed her door, her gaze lingering.

He closed his own door and tilted his head back against it, letting out a shaky breath. If he wanted her not to hate him any more, he might want to try changing his behaviour towards her.

Well, tomorrow was a new day.

* * *

**Part 1 of 3 – next up, Peggy discovers that Jack has absolutely no food in his apartment and takes him to her favourite diner before work the next morning.**

**Reviews are LOVE and always make me smile :)**


	2. Chapter 2

It was the sound of the shower running that woke Jack the next morning. He groaned and ground the heel of his hand against the centre of his forehead, cursing the sunlight that was streaming in through his window since he had forgotten to close the curtains the night before. His head felt like it was splitting, the dull and lingering pain from his two knock-out blows the day before only adding to his stinking hangover.

He rolled over and pulled open the drawer on his night-stand while lying on his stomach. He found the pack of aspirin that he kept beside his bed for occasions such as these and swallowed two of them dry, gagging slightly at the bitterness.

He then slumped back on his pillows, one arm thrown up over his face to block out the light as he listened to the sound of the water running. She was up early, he realised, earlier than he would normally get up. He waited until he heard the water being turned off, followed by a brief pause, then the sound of the bathroom door opening and the guest-room door closing before getting up - the last thing he needed after last night was to bump into Peggy in just a towel.

He threw back the covers and made the bed instantly out of habit despite his headache, then he stumbled his way over to the bathroom. It was steamy in there, the mirror all fogged up from her shower, so he swiped a hand across the glass to clear it some. He hadn't noticed the day before, but he had a faint bruise forming along his jaw from where Peggy had socked him.

A hot shower made him feel slightly more human again, and by the time he got around to shaving in the steamed up mirror the aspirin had started to kick in. He crossed the corridor, grateful not to encounter Peggy with just a towel around his hips, and closed himself in his room to dress for the day.

Several minutes later he walked out into the main living area holding his coat and hat, his hair neatly combed and the straps of his suspenders hanging down by his sides. He paused when he saw Peggy in his kitchen. She was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, not having anything else to change into, and her hair was damp and combed, drying into loose curls – a more relaxed look than her usually immaculate ringlets. She wasn't wearing any make up either, her lips an alluring and natural dark pink instead of her usual lurid red. She was looking through his cupboards, her mouth pursed as she took in their barren contents – a tin of coffee, some cereal, a half eaten pack of pasta and little else.

She glanced over at him, hearing him enter the room. "You don't exactly have much by way of food here," she said in lieu of a good morning.

He knew that: he tended to live off coffee, bourbon and take-out.

Jack shrugged slightly and pulled the suspender straps up over his shoulders. "I tend to grab something on the way to the office," he explained, hoping that some food would assuage his lingering hangover: a greasy fry-up sounded close to heaven right about now.

"I know a good diner," Peggy offered, a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

Jack gestured towards the front door, indicating that she should go first. "Lead the way," he said, absently noticing that she smelt of his plain, ivory soap after her shower.

* * *

Thompson parked up in the same alley behind the L&amp;L Automat that she had knocked him unconscious in the day before, and Peggy could tell from the narrow set of his mouth that he was remembering that moment as well. They walked around to the front of the building and pushed open the revolving door, entering the bustle of the diner.

Peggy was please to see that Angie was working, knowing her friend would have been worried about her after her arrest. With a beaming smile on her face, she put her pot of coffee down on the counter and practically skipped over their way. Thompson, meanwhile, muttered something about food and quickly vanished – Peggy hid a smile, wondering if he was afraid Angie would cry on him again after her pretend-breakdown yesterday.

Angie pulled her into a quick hug. "Good to see you out of handcuffs," she said, smiling widely.

"Hello Angie," Peggy said with a fond smile of her own as they walked over to her usual booth. "I trust Miriam was suitably scandalised by the whole affair?"

"You bet," Angie said, evidently taking a small break from work to catch up since she eagerly sat down opposite her. "We had a _forty_ minute lecture on morality, obeying the law and being discerning when it comes to making friends."

She laughed and was about to apologise for being the cause of their tedium (though her being arrested was probably one of the most exciting things to happen at The Griffith since Harry Houdini had performed there) when Thompson leaned over the glass beside the booth. "Hey Carter, what are you having?" he asked, having already placed his own order.

"Tell Sally I'll have my usual, she'll know what to get," she replied, casting a small smile his way.

Angie blinked and tapped the end of her pen against the table several times, staring at Jack. "Hey English, wanna explain why you're sharing breakfast with the guy who arrested you, still wearing yesterdays clothes?" she asked pointedly, her lips pursed into a mischievous line and her eyes sparkling with interest as she turned to look back at Peggy.

"He is a _colleague_," Peggy told her sternly – Angie raised her brows sceptically in response and Peggy elaborated, giving her a condensed, but truthful, account of her job as an Agent in the war and now at the SSR.

"So you work with that guy?" Angie said interestedly, looking over at Thompson once more, who was stood beside the coffee machine. "He's cute - tall too," she added, then gestured vaguely towards her torso. "He was all, ya know, _firm_ when I hugged him."

Peggy couldn't help a slight laugh, remembering listening to that encounter from her precarious perch on the window-ledge. "I tell you that I am a Federal Agent and all you are interested in is my male colleagues," she said, shaking her head slightly.

"Priorities, English," Angie drawled, winking at her. "Tall, broad and blond priorities."

She shook her head once again, fighting a smile. "He is a bit of a jerk anyway," she told her, looking down at the table thinking of all the times Thompson had sent her to retrieve files.

He appeared at her shoulder with a tray that he placed down on the table. One cup contained coffee, black, how he liked it, with several paper packets of sugar waiting to one side to be poured in, and the other was an empty teacup - beside it was a pot of hot water, a milk jug and three different types of teabags; English breakfast, Earl Grey and peppermint.

Peggy looked up at him, somewhat bewildered. He shrugged one shoulder. "I've never done the coffee run so I don't actually know what you like," he said, answering her wordless question.

"_Yeah_, I can see what you mean, English," Angie said sarcastically, a very smug and satisfied grin spreading across her face, her tone calling her out on just having called Thompson a jerk. Angie looked up at Jack and gave him a small, bright smile. "Agent Thompson," she said, clearly amused by the whole affair.

"Miss Martinelli," he said cordially in response, dropping down into the seat next to Peggy since Angie was taking up the seat opposite her. Peggy hid her smile; Thompson was definitely wary of this petite, Italian waitress who had pretended to sob her heart out on him yesterday.

Angie suddenly perked up, pointing her pen at Peggy. "You're not gonna believe this - Dottie just up and left, no warning, no note, nuthin'."

Jack and Peggy shared a look. "Dottie, as we knew her, was a highly trained Russian assassin who took a room at The Griffith in order to keep an eye on me and then attempted to kill me," Peggy explained plainly, grimacing slightly. "She was the one responsible for the massacre at the movie theatre yesterday and the attack at Times Square."

"... You're _kidding_," Angie said, her mouth hanging vaguely open in shock. "Russian assassin? So she's not from Iowa?" she shook her head, looking stunned. "Man, _she_ should be on Broadway with her acting ability."

"Well I think it will be the electric chair, rather than the flood lights that are calling for her at the moment," Peggy replied, while Jack busied himself pouring packet after packet of sugar into his coffee.

"Ouch," Angie said, wincing in horror. Sally appeared with their breakfast order – several slices of jam and toast for Peggy and the greasiest looking fry-up she had ever seen for Thompson. Angie stood to return to work. "I'll, uh, leave you guys to your breakfast," she said, casting them a small smile before returning to her customers.

There was a brief silence as Peggy and Jack both dug into their food, with Peggy popping the English breakfast teabag into the hot water and leaving it to steep. She then picked up a paper that had been left behind by the booths previous occupants and turned to the classified ads. She suppressed a sigh: she had apartment hunted far too often in recent weeks for her liking.

She was busy circling potential apartments with a red pen when she became aware of Jack tilting his head curiously beside her to watch her progress. "That's not safe for a woman," he said with a frown when she circled one that, admittedly, wasn't in the nicest of neighbourhoods.

Peggy looked up at him pointedly and he amended his statement.

"And by that I mean that while you are perfectly capable of beating anyone who tried to get fresh with you seven ways to Sunday, you shouldn't _have_ to," he clarified, then tilted the paper towards him to get a better look. "What about this one?" he said, tapping a long finger on the page.

"Little out of my price range, Jack," Peggy said mildly – of course he hadn't considered the wage gap. They may do the same job (minus the coffee runs and filing on his part) but she was still paid substantially less. She sighed and folded the paper as she picked it up. "I'm going to go and make a few calls to arrange viewings, I'll be right back," she told him, and then vanished to use the payphone outside.

* * *

"So what's it like at _casa de Thompson_?" Sousa asked Peggy later in the morning, when they were back at the SSR headquarters.

"Surprisingly neat and tidy for a man who is supposedly incapable of doing his own filing," she replied honestly, glancing down the bullpen to where Jack was sat at his own desk. Technically he was the unoffical Chief after Dooley's death, the deputy normally taking over until the high-ups could send them over a new superior, but he hadn't exactly stepped up to the mantle: instead people were looking to Jack, Sousa and Peggy for leadership and Dooley's office remained empty. She also noticed a third cup of strong, black coffee by his elbow and wondered if he was still feeling the effects of his excessive alcohol consumption the night before. "I think he lives off bourbon, coffee and hamburgers though," she added, remembering his empty cupboards.

"Needs a woman's touch then," Sousa said, smiling faintly.

Peggy looked up at him. "You are finding this amusing, aren't you?" she accused, a crease appearing between her brows.

"A little," he admitted, his smile widening to a grin, leaning back in his chair to speak to her. "I had wondered if you two would have killed each other before morning."

"Well I'm taking a few hours off in the afternoon off to see some apartments, so lets hope we can avoid homicide," she said with wry optimism, the work she had done late last night to complete her report having paid off.

Sousa waved a hand at her. "You're just hoping to avoid the cleaning," he said, jerking his chin towards where one of the more junior Agents was busy sweeping up shards of glass, and Peggy grinned in response.

* * *

Several hours later Peggy walked back into the bullpen of the SSR her with shoulders slumped in defeat. "Sousa said you went out apartment hunting," Jack said without looking up from his work as she passed his station, his words making her pause beside him. He glanced up from his file at her as she stopped, noting the tight purse of her lips. "Any luck?"

She sighed and braced her hip against the side of his desk in a way that she probably didn't realise would be mildly distracting for any red-blooded male. "Well the first had a large but _filthy_ kitchen shared with the _entire_ building, the second had a small communal bathroom shared between the whole floor, which, I hasten to point out, was out of order and the third had a nest of cockroaches under the bed," she told him with obvious aggravation in her tone, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Jack grimaced at her, feeling the exasperation that was flooding off her in waves. "Tough break," he said simply, then looked back down at his work. "You're still welcome to sleep at mine," he added in a deceptively neutral voice, finding himself desperately wanting her to agree.

"I can't ask that of you again," she said instantly, disappointing him slightly with her assurance and determination. "I'll phone Howard, he'll let me stay in one of his penthouses – it's the least he can do after we cleared his name."

_We_, he noticed, absently shaking his head as she walked down to her station, not _I_ – she had put her entire career, hell her _life_ even, since the punishment for treason was execution, on the line for weeks, while he and Sousa had only helped out for the last few hours and still it was a goddamn _we_.

* * *

Peggy's plan to stay in one of Howard's several penthouses had immediately hit a brick wall – one phone call to Mr Jarvis later, she had discovered that Howard had flown to Hawaii for the week to celebrate his newly cleared name and the fact that he could enjoy his luxuries once again. She explained her problem regarding her living arrangements and requested that Mr Jarvis let her into one of the penthouses as he had before, but he was quick to puff out his apologies – as a thank you for all of his hard work managing his affairs for the past few weeks, Mr Stark was sending him and Ana on a holiday to vist her family in Budapest. Apparently the car was just outside when she had phoned and Ana was already waiting in the back seat, and he really must dash otherwise they would miss their flight.

She hung up in a huff, closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. "Here, you look like you could use this," Thompson's voice said from above her. She looked up and found him stood beside her desk, holding two mugs. He held one out towards her handle first and she was surprised to find that it contained tea – overly milky tea, to be sure, but she had to give him points for effort since this was the first time he had ever bought her a drink at the office. She took it with a small, inarticulate noise of thanks.

"Problem?" Jack asked, sitting on her desk with one leg braced on the floor, the other dangling as he took a sip of his own coffee.

"Depends how rusty my lock-picking skills are and how advanced Howard's security system is," she replied, not entirely joking and wondering how much trouble she would get into if she were to break in to, and then effectively become a squatter, in one of New York's most expensive apartments.

"Peggy, just come back to mine," he said, a note of frustration in his voice. "Hell, grab your stuff and stay until you find a decent place, I don't mind."

"What's the catch?" she asked suspiciously as she blew on the surface of her tea, knowing that he probably had another motive. "Shining your shoes, bringing you coffee, keeping house?"

He gave her a sideways grin. "Well, I wasn't going to ask for anything in return, but now that you mention it the image of you in a little apron and your hair in curlers like a right proper housewife does tickle me some."

She glared half-heartedly at him, but could tell that he was joking; the level of respect he afforded her had certainly gone up since Russia and her own secret investigations had come to light. He shrugged at her look. "I wouldn't offer if I wasn't serious," he said, his voice quiet and earnest. Then the corner of his mouth twitched up once more. "Consider it payback for all the errands and lunch runs I sent you on."

"Thanks Jack, I owe you one," Peggy said, genuinely grateful for his offer and willing to accept since it didn't exactly look like she had any other options.

He glanced at the clock on the far wall and then hopped off her desk. "I'm clocking out at six sharp, better be ready if you want a lift."

"I'll be there," she replied, nodding her understanding. "Oh, and Jack?" she called after him as he started to walk back towards his station, remembering the state of his kitchen. He paused and turned to face her. "We need to stop at a grocery store on the way back because I am _not_ eating plain pasta and coffee for dinner tonight."

"That's what take-out joints are for, Carter," he retorted, mock-saluting her with his coffee mug and sauntering back towards his desk.

* * *

**Part 2/3 – next up, Peggy and Jack have started to slot into a comfortable routine when Angie shakes things up. **

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**Also, who is excited for the last episode of the series?! Jeez, I hope this show gets renewed! **


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn't long before Jack and Peggy had slotted into something of a rhythm.

In the mornings he tended to shower after her and there would always be a mug of coffee waiting in the kitchen for him when he emerged. They would drive into work together, sometimes stopping for breakfast on the way, though Jack was wary of returning to Peggy's favourite diner – that Italian waitress she was friends with was apparently quick to show her emotions and he didn't want to be in her vicinity if she started crying again.

Peggy continued to look at apartments but had yet to find anything suitable. He had suggested that she find a room-mate to share the costs with, but she had immediately grimaced at the idea – apparently before she had moved into The Griffith a member of Leviathan had tracked her to her previous apartment and killed her room-mate, a young woman named Colleen.

In between work and viewing potential apartments she had unpacked most of her belongings in the guest-room and forced him out to a grocery store. His kitchen cupboards were stocked with basic fare and he had then shocked her with his passable culinary abilities, shrugging and saying his grandmother had taught him a bit.

One night he'd cooked them a dish he'd learned to make in Japan that he could just _tell_ she had hated, yet she didn't say a word against it. Another night she had made him a traditional English stew – he had burned his finger on the stove that evening, distracted when she had licked some gravy off her finger while cooking.

He had even found out that he actually liked tea, but not nearly so much as coffee; the first time he had ever tried it was back in the war and he had drunk it black, like his coffee, and hated it, but she had made it for him the British way, with milk, and it wasn't half bad.

Sometimes she would join him for a nightcap in the evenings, sitting with her legs tucked under her on the sofa, holding a bourbon and wearing a goddamn silk nightdress (having returned his borrowed pyjamas) with a flimsy dressing-gown to cover it that had fairly scrambled his brain when he had first saw her wearing it, and sometimes she wouldn't. Either way, he hadn't been drinking nearly as much with her around.

One night they had bought a case home with them, a lead on some of the Stark weapons that had yet to surface. They had worked late into the night, with all of the files spread out over his kitchen table, arguing ideas back and forth. It had been strange to see her working outside the regime of the office; she wasn't conscious of maintaining the respect of co-workers whilst in his home, so she would run her fingers through her hair, swear under her breath and slam files closed with more vigour then necessary.

And they actually talked: he'd told her about his grandparents, the only remaining family he had, who lived up-state, and she in turn had recounted stories of growing up in England, with an older sister who was married with several children and apparently despaired of her ever settling down, and a younger brother who had been desperate to fight in the war, but had turned seventeen, the minimum age for signing up, a week after V-day. Apparently only her father and brother knew of her true role as an SSR Agent, her mother and sister believing that she worked at the phone company.

They still argued on a near daily basis but they also took it in turns doing the coffee run and paying for take-out when neither could be bothered to cook. It was a routine that was at domestic and fraught with tense energy at the same time, and Jack found that he never wanted it to end.

* * *

Daniel was limping towards the elevator that led up to the SSR offices when he heard Rose, the elevator-operator, speaking to a young woman with curly, honey-brown hair and a dark pink crocheted sweater who stood with her back to him. "I don't know what you're talking about, Miss, this is the phone company," Rose said pointedly, her hand obviously curled around the gun that was concealed beneath her desk.

"Oh come on, I know this is the headquarters for that government thing, my friend works here," the young woman said in a conspiratorial voice, and Daniel was quickly able to place the familiar accent.

"Miss Martinelli?" he said, recognising her as Peggy's friend from The Griffith hotel, the one that had had something of a breakdown and cried into the front of Thompson's shirt.

She turned to look at him and gave him a bright smile, apparently recognising him in turn. "Oh, hey," she said in greeting, then looked back at Rose. "See, I _do_ know these people," she said smugly.

"What are you doing here?" Daniel asked, slightly perplexed by her presence.

Angie (that was what Mrs Fry had called her, he thought) shrugged her narrow shoulders. "I just wanna chat to Peggy for a second, but apparently I am not allowed into your secret hide out," she said, pressing her lips tightly together and looking at him with big, entreating eyes.

"Follow me," he said, gesturing towards the elevator and casting Rose a stern look to silence when she opened her mouth to protest. He wasn't sure what to say and so they rode up in the elevator in silence until it opened onto the bullpen of the SSR. Daniel led the way towards the end of the stations, where Thompson sitting on Peggy's desk with a mug of coffee in his hand, talking to her.

"Look who I found harassing Rose," he said, making Peggy look up.

"Angie!" she said in a surprised, yet pleased voice, rising to her feet.

"So this is where the magic happens," Angie said, spinning in a slow, circle to look around at the stations. She then nodded and smiled in Thompson's direction. "Hey," she said simply, and he tilted his mug at her in response though kept his distance lest she start sobbing on him again.

"What are you doing here, Angie?" Peggy asked, coming around her desk to talk to her.

"Girls night," she replied excitedly, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Everyone is coming out dancing at that new swing club that opened on 5th, you in?"

Peggy blinked. "Thank you, but I am not really one for dancing," she said, sounding uncertain.

"Then sit on the side with an over-priced cocktail, grandma," Angie retorted, coaxing a smile to Peggy's lips, her happiness infectious. "Come on, the girls haven't seen you all week - last they saw of you you were being arrested by two cute law-enforcement people," she added, glancing in Daniel and Thompson's direction and making them share a look with each other. "They miss you and they want to hear the gossip - please?"

"Alright," Peggy said, caving with a smile and a shake of her head.

"Great, we'll meet you there," Angie told her brightly. "Seven o'clock, English, don't be late." She then glanced over in their direction once more and lowered her voice slightly. "Think we should invite your – uh, friends?" and Daniel blinked at the idea of being included in their invitation.

Peggy raised her brows slightly. "Thought this was girls night?" she pointed out.

"Quite right," Angie agreed in a semi-serious voice. "Seven o'clock Peggy," she reminded her, then waggled her fingers at him and Thompson. "See you next time, fella's," she said as she started to make her way back towards the lift.

Daniel instinctively half-waved in response and Thompson pointedly raised an eyebrow at him; he ignored him and returned to his station, wondering if his ears were as red as they felt.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when the phone on Peggy's desk rang; she picked it up before the second ring. "Carter," she said simply.

"Miss Carter, this is Edwin Jarvis," Mr Jarvis's familiar, polite voice said from down the line.

"Hello Mr Jarvis, how was Budapest?" she asked, leaning back in her chair to speak to him.

"Most enjoyable actually, I was able to meet my nieces and nephews for the first time, though it was a slightly trying experience to be sure," he told her, sounding very satisfied with his trip. "I do not believe I have the right calibre for childcare so I find myself grateful that Mr Stark has yet to procreate."

She smiled at the idea, remembering how spooked he was by the young boy when they had been looking through Howard's liaisons. "Was there a reason for your call, Mr Jarvis?"

"Yes, I am back in the city and so if you still require the keys to Mr Stark's penthouse I would be very happy to drop them off at your office within the hour," he explained obligingly.

Peggy paused. "I see," she said, hedging for time and glancing down the office towards where she could see Jack sitting at his desk with his back to her. "I am actually about to head out, perhaps tomorrow would be better," she told him; she needed a moment to think about this, though she wasn't sure why she was hesitating.

"Quite right, Miss Carter," Mr Jarvis said smoothly, accommodating as always. "Tomorrow it is."

Peggy thanked him and hung up, tapping her fingers on the wood of her desk. She then glanced at the time, realising that she would have to leave soon to get ready for tonight if she was to be taking a cab there and back.

She picked up her coat and handbag and left her station, pausing beside Jack's desk as she made her way to the elevator. "I'm clocking out slightly early to get ready for tonight, I'll see you back at home later," she explained when he looked questioningly up at her.

Jack nodded and leaned back in his chair, fishing around in his trouser pocket. "Got you this while I was out on lunch," he said, holding up a key.

She hesitated, then slowly took it. "Thanks Jack," she said, surprised that he would go to the trouble of getting a key cut for her when she was only temporarily staying at his apartment.

He nodded and cast a small smile her way. "Have fun," he said simply, and then returned his attention to his work.

* * *

Peggy's night out with the girls had been a tremendous success. They had all been hugely excited to see her, wanting to hear precisely what had happened after she had been arrested – apparently Angie had fed the girls a story that someone had defrauded the phone company and it had been incorrectly traced back to Peggy's station. She had to admit that she had been more than a little impressed by her cover-story, it certainly sounded plausible.

It was half past nine in the evening and the group was leaving the swing-club, with the majority of the girls having to return to The Griffith for their ten o'clock curfew. Peggy had elected not to dance, but she had still had a good time watching the others laughing and flirting as she drunk a cocktail – she would have preferred a bourbon, but it had been bought for her by one of the girls and she didn't want to refuse it.

Angie sighed as she linked her arm in hers while they waited outside for a cab. "It's strange, you not coming back to The Griffith with us," she said, pouting ever so slightly. "How is the apartment hunting going?"

"Not well, actually," she admitted. "I haven't found anything yet."

"Where are you staying?" Angie asked with a faint, worried frown. "Are you in a hotel?"

"No, I'm staying with a friend from work," Peggy replied non-committally.

Angie blinked several times, tilting her head to look at her. "Would this _friend_ happen to be tall, blond and completely clueless when it comes to comforting crying women?" Peggy didn't reply and Angie practically squealed in excitement. "I _knew_ there was something going on between you two!" she said, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I can't believe you're shaking up with him!"

"We are _not_ shacking up," Peggy was quick to correct her, feeling heat colouring her cheeks at the implication.

"Has he seen you in a nightdress?" Angie asked curiously, still gripping her arm.

"Well yes -"

"Have you seen him coming out of the _shower_?" she added, the glee evident in her eyes.

Peggy hesitated, remembering the other morning when Jack had opened to door to the bathroom wearing just a towel to ask her if she could put a pot of coffee on for him, a toothbrush stuck out of the corner of his mouth and morning-stubble coating his jaw.

Angie laughed when she didn't reply. "You are _totally_ shaking up," she said smugly.

"Its a temporary arrangement Angie, nothing more," she told her firmly.

"Oh yeah?" she asked, a sceptical look creeping over her face. "Then why did you check your hair and lipstick before we left the club?"

Peggy didn't have an answer for that, but she was saved by a cab pulling up to the curb. "Goodnight, Angie," she said pointedly, opening the car door.

Angie stopped her with a hand on her wrist. "Peggy, in all seriousness …" she said earnestly, her expression wide-eyed and entreating her to listen. "If you ask me, that guy likes you, plain as the nose on his face," she told her. "If you think you might be able to like him too … throw the poor boy a bone, will you? He seems like a catch."

She blinked at the suggestion that Thompson might like her, since before the whole Leviathan affair she had been nothing more than a glorified secretary and waitress to him. He had occasionally dropped a _darling_ or _sweetheart_ into conversation when addressing her, but she had assumed that she did that to all women, not thinking that it was a sign of attraction. "Goodnight, Angie," she repeated, her voice softer this time, and then she got in the cab.

She was lost in thought the whole drive back to Jack's apartment, absently watching the blur of coloured light stream passed the window. Quicker than she would have thought possible, the cab slowed to a halt outside his building; Peggy thanked the driver and paid him the correct fare before exiting the cab. She let herself into the building and slowly climbed the numerous flights of stairs up to the top floor, then she hesitated outside of his door, briefly turning over the key he had given her between her fingers.

Even though it wasn't late she let herself in as quietly as she could, softly closing and locking the door behind her. The living room was empty but Jack was clearly still up, his bedroom door standing partially open with light spilling out into the corridor.

"Peggy?" he called questioningly from within his room.

She pushed open the door to his room and found him lying on his back on the bed, dressed in just his work trousers and his under-shirt; he was holding an SSR file propped up on his chest, with several others on the covers beside him. One arm was folded behind his head, which had caused his shirt to ride up an inch or so and reveal a small strip of stomach, and his feet were bare.

"Hello," she said, pausing in the doorway.

"You clean up alright," Jack complimented, his eyes dipping down to take in her dress, lingering a moment too long on her legs before he returned his gaze to her face. "Good night?"

She was _infuriated_ at Angie – she had always known Thompson to be attractive, yes, but he had used his looks and confidence to intimidate others and get what he wanted. She had known him as a sexist bully, determined to swarm up to Dooley and quick to put anyone else down; but now he was respectful towards her, now he was ignoring the vacant position of Chief that was his for the taking, electing to share the responsibility with her and Sousa instead. Now he asked her opinion and actually listened to what she had to say.

Now he had learned how she liked her _tea_, for cripes sake.

"Yes, I thought the girls would be slightly off with me after having been arrested, but Angie smoothed things over with them," Peggy said in answer to his question, shaking her head slightly to rid herself of her dangerous thoughts. "They all seem to think it was a grand adventure that I had and a couple of them even asked about the men who arrested me," she added, smiling slightly.

Jack gave her a crooked grin, not moving from his spot on the bed. "I think Sousa is sweet on Angie," he said, no doubt anticipating teasing Daniel about it.

"Yes, I noticed that too," she agreed, then stepped further into the room, glancing curiously down at the files that were scattered over his bed. "What are you reading?"

"The high-ups finally sent over everything they had on Leviathan – some is redacted and most of it is rumours and speculation, but I thought it was worth the read," he said, flipping the file he held to show her the page, where numerous chunks of text had been backed out. He then sat up and pushed some of the files around on the bed, searching for a particular one that he then handed to her. "I even managed to get hold of some intel on the Battle of Finow – you were right, same piece of Stark Tech that Dottie used in the movie theatre, the people in the town had massacred each other before troops even got there – guess we now know why Stark decked that General and walked away from the Army contract."

Peggy sat down on the edge of his bed and there was silence for several minutes as she immersed herself in the file – it had taken days to get the high-ups to release these to them, and even now large sections were blacked out.

She jumped slightly when she felt Jack's fingers brushing curiously against the scars on her shoulder, which was revealed by the cut of her dark blue dress. She turned to stare at him. "Do you ever wonder what would have happened if Sousa hadn't seen them?" he asked, dropping his hand though still looking at her shoulder with his head tilted to one side.

"I would be dead," she replied matter of factly.

Jack looked up at her, a deep crease appearing between his brows. "I never suspected Dottie, not even for a moment," Peggy clarified. "You and Daniel saved my life when you arrested me."

"You never did tell me how she was able to get the drop on you," he said, the curiosity evident in his voice.

Peggy looked down into her lap, her lips pressed tight together. Jack lowered his head, attempting to meet her eyes. "Carter," he said when she didn't reply. "You put three agents in the hospital and knocked me flat on my ass - how did one woman over power you?"

She sighed and looked up at him. "She kissed me," she said, shrugging slightly to hide her embarrassment.

He blinked. "Come again?"

Resigning herself to explaining, she dug around in her purse and pulled out her Sweet Dreams lipstick, holding it out to him. "She was wearing my brand."

Jack took it and turned the lipstick tube over in his hand once before looking up at her again. "I'm missing something," he said, clearly perplexed.

Taking it from his fingers, she opened it and indicated that he should smell it. He instantly wrinkled his nose. "It's a sleep inducing compound," she told him. "It requires skin to skin contact to work and can render a person temporarily unconscious in less than ten seconds."

"I'm impressed," he said genuinely, handing it back to her and reclining back down on the bed with his arm behind his head once more.

She smiled. "Are you realising that I am a force to be reckoned with, Agent Thompson?" she asked, her chin held high.

"I've known that since Russia, Peggy," he corrected, his voice soft, and Peggy suddenly found herself acutely aware that she was sitting on his bed, that he was lounging relaxedly and giving her an intense, yet respectful look, with one corner of his mouth lazily curled up.

_Dammit Angie_, she thought, a strange, fluttering feeling in her stomach.

"I talked to Mr Jarvis this afternoon," she said to change the subject, looking briefly down at the key Jack had given her that she still held in her other hand. "He is back in town and said that he could drop off the key to one of Howard's unused penthouses, so I'll be out of your hair."

"... Penthouse, right," Jack said, the tone of his voice abruptly shifting to sound dull and wooden. "That's great."

He was avoiding her eyes, all the camaraderie of the past few minutes gone. "What is it?" she asked.

Jack sighed. "You could just _stay_ here, you know – properly, I mean," he said, sounding mildly frustrated. "I know you said you didn't want a room-mate after what happened to … what was her name?"

"Colleen," Peggy said faintly.

"After what happened to Colleen, but I am an SSR Agent too, not some innocent girl who thinks you work at the phone company," he said, then gestured vaguely around the room. "All your stuff is already here - hell you can even pay rent if it makes you feel better about it."

"You want me to move in? Properly?" she clarified and he nodded in response. She shook her head slowly. "We may have gotten along reasonably well these past few days, but before the whole Leviathan affair we _hated_ each other, Jack."

"I never hated you, Peggy," he said quietly. "I just never gave you the respect you deserved, there is a difference."

There was a long silence, with Jack simply watching her and letting her think about his proposition. Odd as it sounded, she liked the routine they had slipped into, their bickering and cooking and bringing each other tea and coffee. She enjoyed the fact that she could talk about work and not have to hide her occupation, like she had while living with others.

And she _hated_ apartment hunting; this was possibly one of the nicest places she had stayed in since leaving England.

She took a deep breath. "I'll pay the same rent I paid at The Griffith, jobs and grocery shopping will be split equally between the two of us and if I hear one _single_ comment about me being a housewife I will walk out the door," she said quickly before she changed her mind.

"Deal," he agreed instantly, holding his hand out to shake. "Though if I see you with your hair in rollers then I make no guarantees," he added with a teasing grin, his strong hand grasping hers.

"I am going to regret this, aren't I?" Peggy said, releasing his hand and feeling her fingers tingling from the warmth of his grip. Jack simply smirked at her in response, his lips pressed together and one corner of his mouth twitching upwards into a smug smile

Angie would never let her hear the end of this.

* * *

**Despite numerous requests that I continue, this is where I had originally planned to end this little fic – I can't really commit to anything longer at the moment, finishing 'Stirring the leaves' (my epically long Hobbit story) is my priority right now. **

**Don't worry though – I am a hard-core Cartson shipper so you haven't seen the last of me for this fandom or pairing!**

**Also, apparently 'shacking up' first became a phrase in the 30s – who knew?!**

**Hope you enjoyed this little fic – reviews are always lovely to receive, hint hint ;)**

* * *

*** EDIT ***

I caved to peer-pressure and wrote a one-shot sequal, which can be found in the next chapter :)


	4. One-shot sequel

**So I caved to peer-pressure and wrote a one-shot sequel – in some of the reviews ya'll asked for more domestic-Cartson, a SSR mission, Peggy being bad-ass and actual romance … well, don't say I didn't listen :p **

* * *

It had been several weeks since Peggy had officially moved into Jack's apartment and their comfortable, if sometimes slightly fraught, routine continued. Word had quickly spread around the office that Agents Carter and Thompson were living together, but since anyone that dared gossip or ask questions was quick to be assigned coffee and lunch duty for at least a week they were able to get a bit of a reprieve.

Soon enough, their living arrangements became old news: the Agents of the SSR were quick to realise that there was no office-drama forthcoming and focus shifted to routing out the remaining sects of Leviathan, as well as several Stark weapons that had yet to resurface.

Their peace, however, was to be disturbed one sunny Saturday afternoon in midsummer; Thompson was down for the weekend rota at the SSR, and so Peggy was in the apartment alone when the phone rang.

She picked it up without thinking. "Hello?" she said.

There was a brief pause, then an older, American woman spoke, sounding slightly flustered. "Oh, excuse me, I believe I must have the wrong number," she said apologetically, somewhat confused. "I was trying to reach my grandson."

"Is your grandson Jack Thompson?" Peggy asked, realising quickly that she must be talking to his grandmother – his '_Gam gam_' as he had accidentally revealed to Angie all those weeks ago. If she remembered correctly, she and his grandfather were some of the only remaining family he had.

"That's right," Mrs Thompson replied, a note of suspicion creeping into her voice. "And who might you be, young lady?"

Peggy realised that she had inadvertently entered dangerous waters here. "My name is Peggy Carter," she said plainly, not sure if she should introduce herself as his colleague, his room-mate or just his friend.

"Short for Margaret, I imagine," she said with a faint sniff. "He has not mentioned you - you answered his phone, so might I surmise that the two of you are _living_ together?" The disapproval was evident in her tone, and if she hadn't been made of sterner stuff Peggy would have probably withered on the spot.

"Mrs Thompson I assure you there is nothing untoward about our living situation," she hastened to assure her, gripping the phone tightly. "Jack and I are colleagues and I am currently between apartments, nothing more."

"Colleagues?" Mrs Thompson asked curiously, her voice shifting to sudden interest. "My Jack works at the SSR."

There was a brief pause. "... Yes he does," Peggy said simply, cautiously.

"And you work there too?" she pressed.

"That's correct," she told her, wondering if she was sending this unknown woman's opinion of her plummeting even further.

"Well, that _is_ good," she said happily, surprising her. "I'm glad to hear that young woman haven't forgotten all of their potential after the war, I was a nurse during The Great War, you know," she told her conversationally, and then added, "Are you an Agent as well?"

"I am," Peggy admitted, a small smile creeping over her face.

"Well aren't you just _marvellous_," Mrs Thompson said in a highly satisfied voice. "Female Agent's fancy that, and such a lovely accent too. I've always wanted to go to England but I have never had the opportunity. Well, I won't keep you my dear, I am sure you are a busy young lady, but if you could just tell Jack that I phone I would be much obliged."

"I will, would you like me to get him to call you back?" she asked politely.

"Oh no, we don't have a phone – I use the one down the street," she explained with a tinkling laugh. "I'll catch him next time. Ta ta, Peggy, take care."

Peggy said goodbye and hung up the phone, slightly bemused by the whole conversation. Jack's grandmother had been an unusual mixture of steely disapproval followed by admiration; she seemed like a most intriguing woman.

However it wasn't until three weeks later that she realised just how significant that phone-call had been. She was standing in the lobby of Thompson's building, having paused to grab the post when she had noticed a handwritten letter addressed to her – unusual, since there were very few people she was in correspondence with and the handwriting was unfamiliar.

She turned the letter over in her hand, somewhat wary since she didn't know the sender. The letter was written in cursive with an ink-pen and the stationary was nice, though inexpensive. She opened it as she climbed up the stairs and blinked in surprise as she read the contents.

_Dear Margaret,_

_ After our brief conversation I hope you won't mind me taking the liberty of writing to you like this, but I have a favour that I wish to ask of you. _

_ As I am sure you know, Jack's birthday is coming up next week (the 23rd) and I have enclosed an old family recipe for apple-sauce cake, which is his favourite. What with sugar rationing and him being away from home I haven't made it for him in some time, so I am certain he would appreciate it as a gift from the both of us. The method is not difficult and I am sure you will be up to the task. _

_ Fondest regards, _

_ Penelope Thompson (Mrs)_

She stopped on the stairs and gaped, glancing between the letter and the enclosed recipe, which had been carefully copied out in the same handwriting. This woman, his grandmother and one of his few remaining family members, wanted her to make him a cake. For his birthday. With an old family recipe, which was his favourite.

The very idea was _preposterous_, she would not do it.

She shoved both the letter and the recipe roughly into her purse, not wanting Jack to see them when she went into the apartment.

* * *

"East stairwell is clear," Jack said into his radio, his gun lowered and ready by his side. They were out on a mission; one of the missing Stark weapons had appeared on the black-market and they wanted to nab the culprits before the exchange. Peggy was on point, heading up to the floor where the exchange was taking place, he and Ramirez were covering the stairs and Sousa was in the lobby.

Jack was tense and focused; the mission had come as something of a surprise, with the tip being called in less than an hour before the exchange. He wasn't going to complain though, it certainly beat sitting around the office – on today of all days, as well. It was his birthday, he was thirty-one today.

As far as birthdays went it was somewhat anticlimactic: he hadn't bothered telling anyone at the office, not even Peggy. The last time he had actually been bothered to celebrate was during the war, but that had mostly been an excuse for him and his Army-buddies to head out of the barracks for a drink or two. He was happy to treat it as just another day this year – a hopefully successful mission completed, followed by dinner and a nightcap with Peggy, that was all the celebration he needed.

"Lobby is clear," Sousa's voice crackled through the radio. "Peggy, do you have a visual?"

"Negative, we're too late," she replied, sounding frustrated. "Looks like they've been and gone."

A door suddenly banged open above him and he heard footsteps down the stairs. Jack raised his gun, holding his radio up to his mouth. "East stairwell, I have a visual," he said quickly as the suited man ran down the stairs. He pointed his gun. "SSR, stop right there," he ordered.

The man reached for his own weapon as he continued to run and Jack fired, missing by an inch – and then suddenly he was too close to shoot at, and Jack was ducking a swipe from a vicious looking knife. He quickly grabbed the arm that held the knife, but was punished by a hard punch to the stomach. He managed to get in two or three punches of his own, but the suited man was huge and used his weight against him - he barrelled right into him, sending them both hurtling painfully down the stairs in a mess of arms and legs.

He landed heavily, groaning as he thought he felt something crack. He was on his feet again in seconds, the suited man also having scrambled up and going for him with the knife again – he leapt backwards, but was not quite fast enough and the knife sliced along his side.

Peggy suddenly appeared from nowhere, leaping down the stairs and grabbing the man swiftly from behind. She was quick and agile, all sharp elbows and scrappy kicks. There was a brief exchange of punches, then she whacked her gun across his temple, making him drop like a stone.

Jack leant wearily against the wall, his hand pressed to his side. "Nice one," he said simply, gritting his teeth against the pain and feeling the blood trickling through his fingers.

Peggy jerked her chin at him, scarcely taking her gaze off the unconscious man. "You alright?" she asked.

"Fine, barely nicked me," he replied stoically, glancing down at the blood coating his left hand. Each breath he took was painful and he thought he might have cracked, or at least bruised, one or more of his ribs.

Sousa and Ramirez appeared on the scene; one of them turned the body over. "He is the fence, not the buyer," Peggy said disappointedly. "Becket is long gone."

"Let's hope he knows where," Sousa replied meaningfully, putting handcuffs on the unconscious man and hauling him into a sitting position.

Peggy put away her gun and walked over to Jack, gently prying away the hand that he had pressed to his side. She sighed. "You'll need stitches, let's get you to hospital," she told him.

"I don't need a bloody hospital," he replied irritably – he knew precisely what would happen if they were to go to a hospital, he would wait ages for treatment, be stitched up and then told about basic after-care that any GI knew after serving.

"Jack," she said sternly, her eyes fierce.

"You guys coming?" Sousa asked, helping Ramirez haul away the suited man as best he could.

Peggy shook her head. "Thompson needs medical attention."

"Dammit Peg, I'm fine," he insisted, still leaning against the wall.

Peggy ignored him. "Are you alright taking him in?" she asked Sousa, nodding her head at the fence. "It's not deep, we're close to our apartment, I can patch him up there since he is being so bloody stubborn."

Daniel's mouth quirked up slightly at that. "I'll get Ramirez to help with questioning," he said by way of agreement. "You get him home."

Irked at their fussing but still seeing it as a better alternative to the hospital, Jack pushed himself away from the support of the wall behind him and slowly followed her out of the building. He was staggering slightly, keeping his hand on the wall and feeling a sharp pain in each breath. Peggy held out her hand for his keys and he gave them over to her without complaint, climbing with difficulty into the car. He winced when he tried to put his seatbelt on, then decided not to bother with it.

Peggy frowned at him from behind the wheel. "If it was just a cut it wouldn't hurt that much," she pointed out.

"I think I _may_ have cracked one or two of my ribs falling down the stairs," he admitted grudgingly, slumped in the seat and trying not to breath too deeply.

"I can still take you to the hospital," she offered as she drove.

"Don't bother, we have everything we need at home," Jack said, shaking his head. They had lost the buyer and the weapon, he doubted that the fence knew any useful information, Becket would have known to cover his tracks, _and_ he had a busted rib and bleeding wound – this was shaping up to be an altogether terrible birthday, in his opinion.

Several minutes later, they pulled up outside his building. Peggy helped him from the car, and he had his arm over her shoulders, leaning on her slightly to walk. They were both still in their combat gear but, luckily, they didn't see the neighbours, whose tongues were already wagging some regarding just who, precisely, the English dame living with young Jack Thompson was.

Normally he quite liked living above the bustle of the street, but today he found himself hating the fact that he lived on the fourth floor, up several flights of stairs. Peggy used her own key to let them into the apartment and he headed straight to the bathroom.

She was quick to follow, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bathtub and not move. Her nimble fingers helped him with the clasps his combat gear, making him wince as she pulled his arms free of the jacket and dropped it to the floor. Next came his under-shirt, which was stained a lurid red on his left side from the deep cut from the knife. She gently guided his arms up and pulled the shirt up and over his head, leaving him in just his trousers and boots.

He smiled grimly to himself – they said be careful what you wish for because half of it might come true, and this was certainly not a scenario he had ever considered in his fantasies of Peggy removing his clothes.

Peggy's fingers were light on his chest as she examined the streaked pattern of the bruising on his ribs. She lightly pressed down on the centre of his chest and he grimaced in pain. "Definitely cracked at least," she told him. "Do you have anything we can use as a painkiller?"

"Aspirin in my bedside table," he muttered, still holding a hand to the wound to stem the sluggish bleeding.

"You can't take aspirin, it thins the blood and you'll bleed more," she said disapprovingly.

He sighed, "Morphine, in the first aid kit under the kitchen sink," he told her. She quickly vanished out of the bathroom. "There's a needle and surgical thread in there as well," he called after her.

She appeared again seconds later with the first aid kit in tow, removing the needle and thread and preparing them. Meanwhile, he located the small syrette of morphine that was in there, which he opened with his teeth. He jabbed the needle into his arm, knowing it would be some minutes before it took effect. He had been given morphine in the war once – it had made him nauseous and given him a dry mouth and headache.

For the next ten minutes or so, Peggy busied herself with cleaning, disinfecting and stitching his wound. The cut wasn't too deep, but it was rather long and he required fifteen stitches in total. By that point the morphine had kicked in; he was in less pain, but now he felt drowsy and dizzy instead, holding the sink beside him for support.

He was also fighting rather inappropriate feelings of arousal, caused by the sensation of Peggy's hands on his bare skin as she tended to him, not to mention looking down at Peggy being down on her goddamn knees in front of him – another fantasy that had only come half true, since she was completely and utterly focused on his injury.

He shook his head blearily, the morphine making him feel tired – Jesus, he needed to get his mind out of the gutter.

* * *

Peggy was aware of Jack gripping the sink beside him with white knuckles for support, his eyes half-lidded from the morphine. She grudgingly had to admit that he was right, treating him here was much quicker than going to a hospital. The knife-wound was stitched cleanly and bound, but it was his rib that would trouble him – there was no treatment other than letting it heal on its own, meaning he would be assigned desk-work for the next two weeks, which he would hate.

His head nodded slightly just as Peggy was finishing the dressing on his side; she had pressed a pad of gauze over the injury and secured it in place with a long bandage that she'd had to wrap around his middle and anchoring it over his shoulder. "The morphine will probably make you sleep, don't try to fight it."

"Yeah, I'm getting that," he muttered, knuckling his eye with his other hand.

He looked almost ready to drop there and then. Peggy hauled his arm up over her shoulders, helping him to his feet. "Come on, let's get you to bed," she said, leading him from the bathroom. He staggered slightly, his other hand reaching for the wall for support. "Can you walk?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied rustily, seemingly unaware that she was practically carrying him.

Thankfully it wasn't far to his room. Peggy got him to his bed and quickly pulled the covers on it down before he collapsed on it. He clearly jarred his ribs more in doing so, since he let out a groan. "How's the pain?" she asked, knowing he could take anything else for some hours yet, though hopefully he would sleep.

"Stop your fussing, I'm fine," Jack grumbled in reply, one arm tossed up over his eyes against the afternoon light that was streaming in through the window. He looked half asleep already, still wearing his combat trousers and heavy duty boots.

Peggy closed the curtains for him and then sat on the edge of his bed, taking his feet in her lap one at a time to unlace and remove his boots for him so that he would be more comfortable. She thought he was already asleep, but he stirred slightly when she pulled the covers up over him. "Bloody awful day," he muttered to himself without opening his eyes.

Peggy sighed, feeling bad for him – he had not mentioned the fact that it was his birthday to her, nor to anyone else, she suspected; she only knew because his grandmother had told her. He certainly didn't seem to have any plans to celebrate it, he had treated it as if it were any other day and then _this_ had happened.

She wished there was something she could do to make the day better for him.

He was frowning even in sleep, a deep crease between his brows. Unthinkingly, she reached out and smoothed her fingers over his forehead, trying not to disturb him. He made a low, sleepy noise and his head lolled to one side, his mouth partially open. She suppressed a smile when he started to snore faintly, clearly out like a light.

She rose to her feet and left the room, pulling the door almost completely closed behind her. Going into her own bedroom, she rummaged around her chest of draws until she found the purse she had used last week, where she found two crumpled pieces of handwritten paper at the bottom.

"I cannot believe I am doing this," she murmured to herself, staring at the letter and recipe from Mrs Thompson.

* * *

Several hours later, Jack woke up and wondered if you could have hallucinations for other senses since he could have _sworn_ that he smelt his grandmothers cooking. He blinked groggily, digging the heel of his hand into one of his gritty eyes. He was still in pain, put it had receded to a dull, but acute ache. He suppressed a groan as he got out of bed and his ribs twinged – Peggy and Sousa would fuss and stick him with desk-duty for a week, he _hated_ desk-duty.

There was still light peeking around his curtains, so he knew he couldn't have slept long. Strangely, he could still smell apples and baking, so he went to investigate, still barefoot. He grabbed a clean under-shirt to pull over his head with some difficulty as he left his room, making the cut on his side smart as he tugged on the stitches.

The smell was stronger out in the corridor. "Peggy?" he said confusedly, walking into the kitchen area and then stopping in his tracks.

She was standing at the stove, still in her combat gear – hell, her gun was still holstered at her side - and was adding the finishing touches to a spiced apple-sauce cake, his favourite. She was frowning deeply at her creation, her hair pulled up and out of the way with a clip.

She looked up at him and his lips parted in surprise – she had flour on one cheek and partially covering her combat fatigues and he didn't think he had ever seen her looking so damn lovely.

"Don't you dare say one word, Thompson," she snapped at him instantly, clearly on the defensive. "I realise how ridiculous this is but your grandmother sent over the recipe for your birthday and I wasn't going to do it but then you had a particularly bad day and if you make one _single_ comment about how domestic I am I swear to god I will -"

He didn't even let her finish - he crossed the room in three strides, took her face in his hands and kissed her.

She froze and for one terrible moment he thought he had made a huge mistake – then her hands fisted in the front of his under-shirt and she kissed him back with equal fervour. He was an inch or two taller than her in her heels, but her heavy combat boots didn't give her any extra height. Without thinking, he slipped a hand around her hip and boosted her up onto the kitchen counter to kiss her easier – the effort of doing so made his rib protest and a noise of pain escaped him.

She pulled back slightly, looking at him questioningly with her eyes darting down to his injury. He shook his head. "Don't care," he told her, stepping between her legs, which were encased in her combat gear. He kissed her again, deeper this time. His hand slid back into her hair and he pulled it free from the clasp, gripping it in his fingers. She pressed herself against him and he could feel the sharp ache in his side beneath the bandage – he didn't mind in the slightest, the pain helped him realise that this was real.

* * *

Peggy, however, was _not_ sure if this was real – one moment she had been scowling down at the cake she had baked, still unable to believe she was making it, and the next she was sat on the kitchen counter with Jack standing between her legs, kissing him for all she was worth.

His hand was in her hair, tilting her head to one side so that he could kiss over her jaw and down her throat. She had one hand buried in his hair as well, the other holding on to one of his shoulders for dear life. A small noise escaped her throat, a cross between a whimper and a moan, and he chuckled against her skin, moving to kiss her properly again.

The phone rang, interrupting them – he paused his his mouth beside her ear and she could feel the heat of his breaths against her skin.

There was a second ring.

"You should probably get that," Peggy said, her voice surprisingly husky – the phone rarely rang, so whatever it was was probably important.

There was a third ring; he kissed her for another second, and then went to pick it up, leaving her perched on the counter.

"Hello?" he said, his own voice slightly unsteady, then he smiled down the phone. "Thank you," he said. There was a brief pause, then he glanced at her. "Yeah, I've had a great day." There was another pause and then he smiled at her, one corner of his mouth tilting up. "I haven't had any yet but it smell delicious," he said, and Peggy realised that he must be talking to his grandmother.

She shook her head, suppressing a small smile of her own, and then hopped off the kitchen counter, still trying to make sense of what had just happened. She and Jack had kissed – and it appeared that both of them had wanted that for some time. Jack was talking softly to Mrs Thompson for a few more minutes while she started to tidy up some of the mess she had made while baking – she wasn't incompetent by any means, but she had never mastered the smoothness, tidiness and efficiency in the kitchen that seemed to come easily to other women.

Having finished his phone conversation, Jack came up behind her and slipped an arm around her waist, kissing the side of her neck.

She turned to face him, looking up at him with a slightly raised brow, their bodies pressed close together with her back against the counter. "So you believe that loosing our lead, getting cracked ribs and needing fifteen stitches is a good day then?" she questioned, having heard what he had said to his grandmother.

"Peggy," he chided. "You saved my life, you are baking my favourite food from home and …" He kissed her again, this time light and tentative – almost as if he was testing the waters, like he was uncertain if the last time had been a fluke. She kissed him back for a few seconds before he drew slightly away, sighing in relief against her mouth. Then he kissed her again. "Yeah, I would call this a pretty great day."

* * *

**Hope you all enjoyed it - go on, leave a review in that lil' box down there :) **

**Again, you haven't seen the last of me for this fandom but I really _really_ need to get back to my Hobbit fic**


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